Lather, Rinse, Repeat
by sondre
Summary: To cleanse yourself is to rise from the ashes. Train x Charden x Sven


_**Warning: polyamory, yaoi, revisionist history and sexual situations.  
**_

_**

* * *

**_

**poly · am · ory  
**function, _noun_:  
the state or practice of having more than  
one open romantic relationship at a time

* * *

Charden had always thought that those sorts of things only work out like that on television.

He knew that he and Train's regular talks at midnight and caught, lustful stares weren't normal in the context of a room/board relationship. The sweeper knew that, in the beginning, Charden had only remained for Kyoko, who alternated between squealing over Charden's glasses-free face in the mornings and clinging to her Kuro-sama in the evenings. However, the blond had been certain that even the slightly hyperactive schoolgirl could see the way that her idol and her caregiver exchanged glances were most-definitely nothing _but_ licentious. She had backed off on her daily glompings, after all—diligently so.

He also knew of the gentle touches exchanged between Sven and Train in a playful manner; how Train joked that the older gentleman was his 'Svenny-Baby' and that he would battle off any cougar who came-a-knockin' at their modest hideout's door. Charden didn't miss the prolonged strokes through celery green hair, or the moment-too-long grip of smooth, milky forearms. Eve, who sat next to him assiduously every morning at the breakfast table, often commented on their "lovers' quarrels" over how much their latest target was worth, and the fact that Train spent said acquired worth upon Rojana's famous onion buns, which caused the two to blush like school children. At that point, they would distance themselves from each other until lunch, upon which they recouped and fought back against the twelve-year-old Lunatique clone's flawless logic.

Charden also was not unfamiliar to be on the receiving end of the former IBI agent's advances. In order to earn their keep, he and his heat Taoshi counterpart had agreed to assist on sweeping jobs. Once, when Charden had followed a target to the rooftop of a sixty-storey building, he'd slid off the edge due to the strong winds. Whilst the target had slipped from his grasp with a parachute strapped to his burly back, Charden had been more concerned with the fact that the chilling gale was slowly numbing his fingers—if he lost grip, he would plummet to his death, as not even a Taoshi could survive that kind of a drop. (Eve and Kyoko—more so Kyoko—had dressed him in sweeper's clothes, form fitting denim and a slim, partial sleeved shirt, thus stripping him of any sort of cushioning his beloved hat could have provided.) At the last moment, when he had resigned himself to death after mentally facing the horrors of being nothing but a smudge on the street below, a pair of hands had gripped his icy arms and hauled him up over the edge, embracing him tightly to save him from freezing.

It had been Sven, and Charden could've sworn, two hours later when the five sweepers—three legitimate and two pseudo ones—were celebrating their catch with steaming bowls of ramen, that he felt the mismatched-eyed man's hand lingering protectively on the small of his back for most of the evening.

Thus, he'd concluded after most-definitely outstaying his self-evaluated welcome in the hideout:

He wanted Train and Sven.

Train wanted him and Sven.

Sven wanted him and Train.

However, shortly after coming to this conclusion, he'd had the misfortune of walking in on a particularly intimate moment between the two male sweepers of the pack—namely, Train with his pants around his ankles, settled in a chair, and a hatless Sven kneeling comfortably between his legs. At first he'd sputtered an apology, moving to shut the door after exiting the room, but Sven's calm, strong voice had told him otherwise.

"Come here," he'd said, "I'd like you to do something for Train."

Stumbling back into the room, desperately attempting to keep his eyes off of Train's . . . area—his cheeks reddened from mere mention—he stood dutifully next to Sven. When Sven had motioned for him to take his place on his knees, he'd silently begged to be released from the room instead. However, Sven's hands on his shoulders had forced home to crouch in front of Train's quite obvious arousal.

"Lick it," Train had said with a lazy smirk, head propped against his fist.

Charden had obliged.

Eventually, the "misfortunes" had escalated from him simply pleasuring either of the men to them reciprocating. On occasion, he was required to do nothing but sit back—or lay, depending on what the evening called for—and watch as the two men lavished their attentions upon his begging body. At first furious of the lack of control in these surreptitious meetings, as at one point he'd been bound and gagged, reduced to sensation, soon the blond Taoshi began to crave not one but both men—always at the same time, skin against skin and sweat mingling. When feelings began to stir within his chest, he passed them off for asthma. Charden, quite simply, did not _do_ love. He wasn't even sure if the word was in his admittedly extensive vocabulary. Affection, most certainly—his body, after all, had began to associate the two's chi with insatiable, mind-wracking pleasure that never seemed to end until well into the night. But never love. How could someone love two people at the same time?

It was then he learned that the two other men were battling similar feelings—though they both could freely admit that it was love. Sven professed that Train had filled a void in his life after Lloyd's death, and Charden had finished the process by turning metaphorical scars into just another piece of skin. Train admitted that Sven's presence had come to replace even Saya's within him, and Charden also had been the final step in stopping his nightmares of her death. It was frightening, at first, for the most emotionally unattached man this side of the world to be confronted with two confessions of love at the same time. For a moment he'd considered rejecting them and departing, but he was tired of running; sick of leaving his past behind. That very action had led Creed to him; his history of running from anything remotely capable of hurting him had intrigued the former Chrono and prompted him to offer the elixir. Twenty-two, alone and for what . . . ?

He'd sealed his fate with four simple words: "I feel the same."

They'd worked out their relationship with ease. The rules were that there would be no jealousy, nor possessiveness. They spent their time divided, two together some days and the three of them every night possible. Kyoko began to question their closeness, but rejoiced when Charden twisted the truth by saying that he and the two sweepers were now 'close friends'. Eve easily saw through them, per usual, but knew to keep quiet about it, asking one question—"Are you three having sex?" which had sent Sven catatonic upon realization that his adoptive daughter was on the cusp of puberty—and leaving it at that. Train had laughed, Charden had blushed, and Kyoko had snored from the couch, handheld game squished up against her cheek.

In the end, Creed had been abandoned by all of the Hoshi save Echidna after his defeat at the hands of Sephiria, reduced to nothing but a wheelchair. Train had cried tears for Saya after her murderer's death made headlines, and Sven and Charden had comforted him as he sobbed over that morning's issue of Global Daily. Kyoko had chosen to emancipate herself from her parents, due to their constant absence, and attend school with Eve at charter. She even received her sweeper's licence, along with Charden, at their small, blonde (self-proclaimed) leader's insistence.

Each event had brought Charden to the present, lazing in the hideout's backyard hammock, Train curled up like a—well, like a cat—over his body. Sven sat in the lawn chair a few feet away, bobbing his head to the thirties-era music echoing out of the wind-up radio next to him, he and Charden's hands lightly intertwined as the three of them drifted off peacefully to sleep.

Charden had always thought that those sorts of things only work out like that—so perfectly—on television.

It would appear that he still had many things to learn.


End file.
